


follow thee and make a heaven of hell

by Mira_Jade



Series: My Lost Saints [2]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: . . . but your patience will be rewarded, . . . yep we are still working on that, Developing Relationship, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, First Kiss, Hypocrisy, Let's sit back and watch the fireworks now, Midsummer, Norse Culture and Lore, Post season three, Religious Conflict, Saint John's Day, Slow Burn, Summer Solstice, The Catholic Church: adopting pagan celebrations one holiday at a time
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-09-05
Packaged: 2018-04-11 00:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4413050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Jade/pseuds/Mira_Jade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On Midsummer's Eve, her people prepare to honor Saint John the Baptist, while his light their pyres in memory of Baldr the Bright.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Since the first story in this series was so well received – seriously, you guys are _the best_ , I wasn't expecting anything of the sort – you have no idea how excited I am to share this next chapter of Rollo and Gisla's tale. This part of the series is a short story, with only three or four parts total, but it's an important step in their story, in more ways than one - so I can't wait to see what you guys think! As always, I thank each and every one of you for reading, and I hope that you enjoy. 
> 
> (And also? The title is nicked from Shakespeare's _'Midsummer's Night Dream'_ , because that is my sense of humor for you. ;) )

The day dawned clear and cloudless in the heavens above.  
  
Slowly, the sun rose to crown the land, painting ribbons of pale pink and purple light upon those stirring to greet the day ahead. Earlier than was her wont, Gisla turned from bed long before the sun rose in order to see her morning devotions done before they set out for the day – for the spring sowing was now manifesting as a soft yield of rippling gold across the fields, and her husband intended to ride out and see the progress of the farms at Midsummer's himself. At first, she had been surprised when she was invited to go along, before reflecting that if she had not been invited, she most likely would have pushed herself along anyway. Rollo, she thought, knew this.  
  
Yet, all of her high spirits for the day wavered when she walked out into the yard to see Rollo already astride his own horse, with two of his men mounted and ready to depart behind him, while, for her . . . She looked, and saw one of the two Norse girls she had taken into her service - Ósk - leading an already saddled horse, presumably for her use.  
  
Gisla looked at the chestnut mare with her dainty white muzzle and four white stockings – a deceivingly gentle creature, she was sure, hiding a demon soul within – and tried not to let her unease show on her face.  
  
She turned to Ósk, then certain that Rollo had noticed her unease, but ill to the idea of explaining where it stemmed from. “That is the wrong saddle,” she said to the girl, pleased when her voice did not waver for her use, even when it came out sharper than she intended – so much so that Ósk raised a brow, and looked on her questioningly.  
  
“I saw the _right_ saddle,” Rollo answered for the girl. He moved well atop his own horse, she thought, hardly using the reins so much as his seat to turn the animal in a small circle to address her. Of course, she thought with more childish sullenness than she cared to feel, one beast _would_ identify with another. “That saddle would let you do nothing more than sit and be led about like a child - or worse, a load for a pack-horse to carry.”  
  
Gisla felt her cheeks touch with pink at his words. She held her jaw stiffly. “Riding aside is the proper way for a woman,” she returned, not wanting to say that she normally had to focus her all on not panicking atop a horse. Thus, she normally did not mind her mount being led by another – no matter how much of a _load atop a packhorse_ she seemed to be.  
  
“And, with this . . .” she gestured down at her skirts – her riding ensemble was made of a sturdy material, and nothing so richly elegant as her robes for court, but it remained a dress, nonetheless. “Such wardrobe dose not favor sitting a horse astride.”  
  
“Such a wardrobe favors few _practical_ things, it's true,” Rollo snorted to agree, slowly looking her up and down. She felt his gaze as fingertips, and fought the urge she had to shuffle her weight from foot to foot in reply. He then shook his head and made a dismissive gesture. “Go and change. We will wait.”  
  
She opened her mouth to protest – for she did not have anything to change _into_ , and she would most certainly _not_ ride like a man, no matter what -  
  
\- but Rollo, by now more than adapt at reading just when she was about to dig her heels in and protest, raised a brow to say, “The Gods created you with two hands, and two legs, yes?”  
  
She breathed out sharply through her nose, aggravated. “ _Yes_ , and yet -”  
  
“ - do you have eyes to see the road, and a mind to decide your course?” Rollo continued as if she did not speak. “Do you have a voice to speak to the animal, and balance to keep yourself upright? If you lack any of these things, do not ride. Yet, seeing as you do not lack . . . why are you not capable of riding this horse as a man is?”  
  
Gisla swallowed, and met his eyes crossly. She could see the clearly written challenge in his gaze, the expression by now a more than familiar one to her. He was all but _daring_ her to back down, she thought, and she would not give him the _satisfaction_ of her doing so. No matter that . . .  
  
. . . but she would not remember that day, not now.  
  
“It is either that,” Rollo continued in an overly pleasant voice, “or you may stay here. The choice is up to you. Unless, ” his eyes glittered as the thought occurred to him, “you wish to ride _with_ me? That can be arranged too.”  
  
Without bothering to dignify _that_ with a response, she instead turned from him completely, her ire then raised as it had not been before. She looked to Ósk, and before she could frown and find her words to ask, the girl was already inclining her head and saying, “I have just the thing.” She did not call her _my lady_ or _princess_ in respect, but then she never did. Gisla had learned not to take offense to the lack of formality after noticing that Rollo's men addressed him in much the same way, and accounted it as yet another difference between their peoples to add to a long list of many such differences.  
  
Even so, if she thought that Rollo's eyes followed her when she left with Ósk – so much so that she tilted her head up and pretended that she did not notice his stare, as she often did – then they were most certainly fixed upon her now as she returned.  
  
Her cheeks flamed, even when she told herself that they _would not_. Though the soft brown breeches Ósk had given to her were loose enough, they still displayed the shape of her legs in a way she had never worn in public before. She wore a long tunic over them – the longest one she could find – but the fact remained that the shape of her knees and the curve of her calves were obvious to all to see. She felt out of place and off-balanced, even though she tried to tell herself that the cut and pattern of her tunic and braided hair were certainly feminine enough. It was not an immoral, rebellious thing she did, she had to repeat, but a practical thing, and really . . . it _was_ easier to move about with her legs free and unrestrained by her skirts, this a small, secret part of herself whispered to admit. There was a certain freedom to be found with dressing as such - one she sternly told herself that she would _not_ become accustomed to.  
  
And now Rollo was staring at her – she could feel his eyes linger on the dip of her waist before tracing the shape of her legs – and she told herself that she was not affected by his stare. She _was not_. Pointedly, she turned from him to attempt to mount the unfamiliar saddle, telling herself all the while that she _did not_ feel a tingling between her shoulder-blades for his look – like the ground whispering with charged awareness before lightning struck.  
  
Gisla grit her teeth, and reminded herself that she had more immediate worries to concern herself with than her husband's clear appreciation of her dress. Narrowing her eyes, she reached up to grasp the pommel, wondering how she was going to swing herself up and over the back of the horse – and was then surprised when she felt two strong hands at her waist, effortlessly lifting her off of the ground. She had been so focused on avoiding her husband's stare that she had not seen him dismount, and her sudden movement from the ground to the horse's back was certainly a disorienting one. She felt Rollo's touch linger at her waist, his large hands able to wholly encompass the dip from the bottom of her ribcage to the curve of her hips; steadying her as her body naturally fell into form atop the horse – finding the stirrups and balancing herself with an ease that _was_ more natural than sitting aside, she had to confess.  
  
Her tunic was thin in deference to the warmth of the summer day, and she could feel the heat of his hands when he was slow to back away, making sure that she was settled. An answering sort of warmth seemed to flicker, deep inside of her, and Gisla stiffened in surprise at the unexpected response – so much so that Rollo only noticed her sudden tensing, and let his hands fall away from her without comment.  
  
She had an irrational moment wishing that he had not done so before shaking her head – her mind taken from the strange moment by the mare prancing about underneath her, curious as to the new presence on her back. Gisla took in a breath, and told herself that she was _at ease_ , she was _in control_ , she was not -  
  
“Juno, I am told, is a gentle creature,” Rollo leaned in to say. He ran a hand over the mare's neck as he spoke, his voice deep and low so that only she could hear. Affectionately, the horse – Juno, Gisla understood – butted her head against his chest. “She will follow where we lead. You need only hang on, and enjoy the ride.”  
  
“I -” she swallowed to find her voice, wanting to explain her trepedation, but quite unsure where to start.  
  
“My brother-son was thrown from a horse when he was very young,” Rollo did not make her finish speaking in order to say. He shrugged, his great shoulders lifting and falling with the gesture “It took him moons in which to conquer his fear to ride again – though I believe that he would have never sat upon a horse again had his mother allowed him to do so. There is no shame in fear; only in giving into it.”   
  
He looked at her then, and his eyes were very warm in the rising light. He did not wait for a reply; he only patted her knee once - the same gesture he had used to sooth the mare, she thought – and then returned to his own horse. She watched him for a long moment, her pulse strangely calmer in her chest for his words.  
   
She let out a shaky breath and hesitantly leaned forward, at last trusting her balance in the saddle enough to pat the mare's neck, much as Rollo had. “If you keep me from falling,” Gisla whispered to the horse, “there will be an apple in it for you, you have my word.”  
  
The mare's ears flickered, listening to her, and Gisla felt the slightest bit more at ease as they turned to leave the stables behind. It did not take them long to ride out through the city-gates, and almost immediately the farmer's fields started to spread all around them, cut only by the creeks and tributaries of the Seine river, and blurred every now and again by wooded thickets and green orchards of fruit trees, the fields of wheat and barley were a swaying crown of gold and soft brown over the gentle dips and curves of the land.  
  
No more than a whisper of growth now, she knew that they would soon grow into a rippling sea of ripe amber. For now, the crops were healthy, and she knew that the farmers were pleased by their efforts for the season thus far. It was a good sign for Rouen, and the March of Neustria as a whole, Gisla could not help but think, and she was cheerful for the thought.  
   
For a good long while she rode contentedly behind the men, only able to listen to the sound of their voices as they spoke rapidly in Norse. But she did not mind, trusting Rollo to fill her in on what they spoke of later. That trust was an easy thing to her mind - one that she did not have to think about twice to consider. She was only disturbed from the calm current of her thoughts by the urge she had to flush whenever the Frankish farm-hands and field-workers looked up and stared at her as they rode by. She could feel their silent judgment, their silent disapproval, for her dress and manner of riding - to which she tilted her head up proudly in reply, and told herself that she felt nothing for. She was comfortable, she continually repeated within her mind, and God _had_ created her with two legs, as Rollo had pointed out - all jesting aside. She should not have felt shame, so she told herself that she did not.  
  
After some time passed, she noticed that Rollo had slowed in order to ride by her side. Yet, instead of speaking to her about the states of the farms, as she first expected, he looked expectantly at the fields, and asked, “And this?”  
  
For nearly three weeks now, Rollo had been attempting to teach her the basics of his language. She was learning at a moderate rate, though not as quickly as she would have liked – and not nearly as quickly as he had picked up Frankish, at that. Yet, she contented herself with the knowledge that Rollo had no choice but to learn her tongue quickly – and he had been quite surrounded by it, at that, where she was learning solely from the bits and pieces he showed to her.  
  
After a moment's consideration, she said, _“Bjoð.”_ The word rolled off of her tongue with the barest of inflections as she fixed the foreign flow of constants to her speech. The sound was strange, but she held it on the back of her tongue as triumph flushed through her for her accurate pronunciation – she could see that much in Rollo's nod of approval.  
  
_“Fields,”_ Gisla tilted her head up proudly to define the word in Frankish, confident of her translation.  
  
Rollo glanced at her, and raised a dark brow in reply. He did not praise her efforts, but instead asked, in Frankish, “And _this_ field?” __  
  
She pondered for a moment – for longer than she would have liked to, really. _“Hvatki-er,”_ she formed the syllables of the word slowly, as a question. She knew of her error as soon as Rollo smiled - no matter how quickly he went to tuck the gesture away.  
  
“ _Hveitiakr_ means wheat-fields, as I believe you were trying to say,” he corrected. “ _Hvatki-er_ means _whatsoever_.”  
  
Gisla frowned, annoyed with herself. If speaking to another, her meaning would have been skewed entirely. She let out a huff of breath, and, feeling her agitation, Juno tossed her head, tugging on the reins as she picked up her pace in reply. Gisla tugged back on the reins to get the mare to slow again – too sharply, she immediately knew, and Juno tossed a look over her shoulder as if in chastisement before calming to a sedate walk once more.  
  
And Gisla scowled, trying to hide the way her heartbeat picked up pace and thundered within her chest for the mare doing so. “I would be able to concentrate more so were it not for this . . . this beast moving about so beneath me,” she nonetheless held her head up to say.  
  
Rollo glanced down at the gentle palfrey, and raised a brow. “It is not as if you try to stay astride _Sl_ _e_ _i_ _pnir_ ,” he finally snorted to say, seeing where she still held herself stiff and awkward in the saddle. “After all that has happened these last few moons, it is the _mare_ who defeats you?”  
  
She tilted her nose up haughtily in answer. _“Griss,”_ was all she could think to say - glaring with her response, though her expression had not much bite to it. During her time trying to pick up his language, she had at first thought herself to learn an insult with the word, and took to calling Rollo _Griss_ in her mind whenever he irked her. She knew that Rollo heard it whenever she spoke underneath her breath, though he never mentioned her doing so outright.  
  
Yet, the one time she erred in calling him her self-learned insult where her ladies could hear, she was greeted by Ósk's amused laughter in reply. Then, Rollo had only been too happy to tell her that _Griss_ did not mean _pig_ , as she so thought . . . but rather _piglet_ . . . which changed the nature of her appellation _entirely_ , much to her mortification. Yet, she had not stopped with the name – which she could not quite explain, even to herself.  
  
Rollo raised a brow, perhaps amused that she did not have any other way to respond, but was interrupted from replying when they turned a bend in the road to come upon a grove of trees that separated the fields from the riverside. She looked, and saw where four of the Northmen were dragging a fir tree from where it had been felled to a waiting cart and dray horse.  
  
The men were in high spirits as they went about their task, and they were cheerful in their welcome when they saw Rollo. She recognized one of the men – Oddr, who was the older brother of her two Northern maids – as he stepped forth to greet his lord, embracing him and clapping Rollo on the back with a familiarity that she did not think emphasized the hierarchy between them, at all.  
  
They spoke rapidly in their own tongue, and Gisla did not yet understand enough of their language to begin to follow what they said. She listened politely, however, and when Rollo turned to her, he explained, “For Baldr's balefire, to celebrate Midsummer's eve, and the day that never ends.”  
  
In the space of a heartbeat, the warmth of the summer day and the bright blue sky overhead seemed to darken before her. She felt cold, no longer noticing the line of sweat spreading underneath her collar as she understood what they said. They . . . they wished to . . .  
  
Gisla went to open her mouth and protest – for in no Frankish land would there be such a _p_ _agan_ observance alongside their own holy day - before biting her tongue, and silencing herself. She would find no listening ear if she chose to argue before his men, and she would not undermine his authority with such disrespect, at that.  
  
Even so, she fell into a pensive silence atop her horse, and frowned to consider what she knew.  
  
She was not familiar with this _Baldr_ , but she was familiar with the pagan practices of bonfires on Midsummer's eve to celebrate the summer solstice – honoring the sun and whatever deities they had assigned to watch over that day. Such had been the custom in the Saxon lands her great-grandfather Charlemagne had conquered, and the Church had to level strict laws about the sort of revelries that were _appropriate_ to honor their own Saint John the Baptist on that same day to the converted Saxon peoples – and such a strict ordinance was one she was most certainly determined not to break now. Rather, her people needed to hold onto their faith all the more so for living side by side with a people who did not worship the true God - much as the people of Israel had to constantly remember themselves when surrounded by the numerous temptations and false gods of the land of Canaan.  
  
Her thoughts were such as they continued to circle again and again. She saw Rollo look around, and before he could ask her the Norse word for _dra_ _y_ _horse_ , or _fir tree_ , or something else of the like, she opened her mouth and said with more force than she knew was wise: “I do not want your men to celebrate on Midsummer's eve.”  
  
“Excuse me?” Rollo had to blink in order to say, taken aback by the sudden fervor in her voice. She watched where his own look turn guarded as he took in her tight grip on the reins, and the way her brow furrowed in a manner that he clearly knew from her holding her ground and preparing to defend it. “What do you mean to say?” he asked, more carefully then.  
  
“Observing such pagan practices is to invite the Devil into our midst,” Gisla found her words in order to strongly say. “The Vita of Ouen specifically states that our own festival to Saint John should not be observed with the lighting of fires or dancing in practices meant to frighten away evil spirits and honor the sun as those Saxons who worshiped Woden did.” _Woden . . . Odin_ . . . she thought with a ghost of recognition, wondering then about the kinship her husband's people bore with the heathen populace her great-grandfather had conquered and converted. But such reflections did not fit with the brightness of the day, nor did the implications of such a thing match the sweetness of the blue sky over their heads.  
  
Rollo frowned, and she saw where his mouth tightened in response to her words. She felt a warning whisper in her bones, but firmly ignored it. “If my Gods are Devils, as you are so certain of,” Rollo at last asked in a low voice. “Then why are _you_ here? Why has your God allowed us in your midst?”  
  
His question was one she had asked herself so many times since the day Ragnar's ships first appeared on their horizon. And so, she gave the only answer she had come to find through her soul-searching and prayers: “This is simply a test of faith, of _resolve_ – the same as Abraham being asked to sacrifice Isaac his son was.” And it was a test she would not falter in; not now.  
  
Rollo snorted, and shook his head in reply to her words. “It is a strange God you worship, to repay your devotion in such a way. The gods can take, but they can also give – which I have yet to see your God do.”  
  
“He works in mysterious ways,” Gisla returned stubbornly. “It is not to us of earthly minds to question Him and His purpose.”  
  
“And yet these earthly men I now lead fight because of their faith – both your people and my people are the same in that regard. I will not take their belief from my people, just as I would not ask you to give up yours.” His tone was low, and though he did not raise his voice, she recognized the edge lining his words as a warning.  
  
Gisla frowned, and tried to imagine orange flames licking at the soft, serene darkness of a Holy Night . . . and no . . . _n_ _o._ She would not allow it. She _could not_. “Only one belief is an _accurate_ belief, however, only one God is the _true_ God,” her voice was low with the fervor of of her certainty, and she could feel her eyes brighten as with Grace as she spoke. “You and yours would be more than welcome to honor our Saint John with us, and -”  
  
She felt, more than understood, exactly when she crossed a line with her words. She looked, and saw that Rollo was then angry for her pushing the subject. There was a dark look in his eyes as he returned in a sharp voice, “And how do you know that our gods are not _true_? Your churches are always ripe for the picking – never once has your God stepped forth to protect his own – and we have come to know to expect more gold and silver in a monastery than a King's palace. Even now you look to _us_ and our gods for help when your own God's power has failed you, and yet you would ask _us_ to forsake those gods? No. We will not turn away from those who have blessed us, and insult them with our lack of belief. Worship as you will come the solstice, but our own fires will be lit.”  
  
She swallowed, finding her throat suddenly dry to her use as her heart hammered. She felt as if she were rapidly losing ground, and she could not . . . she _would_ not . . .  
  
“I want you to do this for me,” she tried – a last ditched effort on her part. “Please, Rollo.”  
  
He held himself very still as he looked at her, and she thought that she first glimpsed a flash of something wounded in his gaze for her using the idea of any sort of affection between them to influence his decision. His mouth tightened, and she read his anger in the suddenly stiff cast of his limbs and the way his fisted hands all but swallowed the reins he held. She had hurt him, she then understood as a whisper – she had hurt him as much as she had insulted him, and she felt the first prickling of shame touch the undersides of her heart. Yet, her belief was yet stronger than her shame, and she would count the blow worth it should it grant her the answer she sought.  
  
Yet, it was not to be so. Rollo's voice, when he answered, was low and dangerous, rumbling as thunder in a cloud as he said: “That I cannot do, Princess. It would be wise of you not to ask again.”  
  
The use of her title was as a blow, spoken in formality instead of the teasing sort of jibe it normally was upon his tongue. She felt something inside of her bruise for hearing it, even as she glared at him as he spurred his own horse forward to join his own men once more – clearly leaving her and their conversation behind. Only when she released a breath she had not known herself to first hold did she realize that she had been apprehensive the whole time. She had clearly angered him - and she had seen before what carnage he could wreck when he was moved to such a rage - and yet . . . she had not felt a moment's fear for the repercussions of her words. She had not once worried for her own self while poking the sleeping bear she knew him to be.  
  
Instead . . .  
  
But no . . . _no_. Such thoughts would not benefit her now – not when she had a mountain to move in the form of her husband's mind and his firmly decided course. For she would not allow the ways of his gods to infringe upon the true holiness of the day to come. She _would not_.  
  
So, Gisla spent the ride back to the city in silence, pondering her options and laying the groundwork for the battle that was most certainly to come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Sidesaddle** : At this point in history, the sidesaddle was not as we knew it now, but rather a contraption that allowed a woman no freedom in controlling her own horse – it was designed to be led by a man, reducing her to a mere passenger. The more practical versions we are more familiar with today came about by the design of Catherine de' Medici in the sixteenth century, who wanted to ride with the men on her own power while still being considered 'feminine'. (Seriously, don't sneeze at the sidesaddle, folks - I've seen women take on six foot tall fences sitting aside in competition, and it's _amazing_.)
> 
>  **Sleipnir** : Odin's eight-legged war-horse, and a son of Loki. (Which is another story _entirely_. ;))
> 
>  **Baldr's Night/Saint John's Day** : I will be going into much further detail with the history of both in the chapters to come, so just sit tight. 
> 
> And I think that's it! Let me know if anything else caught your eye, and I'd be happy to chat about it. If not, I will see you all with a new chapter soon.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a tricky one for me to write, let me start by saying. I had to do a lot of tweaking to not make it sound like an information dump, but it was necessary to share this background in order for the story to move forward from here. So, I hope that you enjoy the fruits of my labor, and maybe take a fun fact or two away for your reading - for which I again have to disclaim: I enjoy reading about history as a hobby, and though I did quite a bit of research for this, there are undoubtedly things that I goofed up on. Hopefully they are not glaring enough to take away from your enjoyment of the story, however.
> 
> And, I also have to warn: if you are devoutly Christian, this chapter looks at some of the more questionable doctrinal decisions the Church has made over the centuries in the name of power and greed. Such a frank examination may not be for you, though I try to remain respectful - my goal for this story is a common ground between _belief_ and one's individual _religion_ , much as I feel the show tries to portray, but only you can decide if I succeed with that by the end of this. ;)

The feel of rich samite silk once again draping her body was a welcome sensation upon returning to the manor house. Gisla stared down at her skirts, taking in the way the stripped green and white cloth she wore wrapped over one shoulder and belted at her waist fell against her long sleeved dress of deep red, with its motifs of gold and darker red lotus flowers and intricate tree branches, beneath, before smoothing the fabric with her hands. The ensemble was a favourite of hers, one that she normally felt more than comfortable in, and yet . . . she frowned, wondering why she did not feel quite the same in it now as she always did.  
  
Sighing, she reached up to make sure that her thin veil and simple diadem of beaten gold were in place upon her hair; which had been pulled back into a new plait after her time spent out of doors. One thing that her Norse maids were very proficient at, Gisla had to admit, was arranging one's hair in various ornate styles involving braids, and they had been eager to learn the Frankish styles for their lady. She felt the smooth coils underneath her fingertips, and glanced only once at the looking glance before nodding, satisfied with her appearance.  
  
She then turned to watch Ósk fold the breeches she had borrowed to return to her own rooms, before securing her tunic away in her trunks. The girl hummed underneath her breath as she went about her task, and her hands were soft and gentle upon the fine fabrics she handled. Even now, Gisla could still remember the delight of Ósk and her sister Ondótt as they went through her chests when they first prepared to move to Rouen; marveling over the foreign fabrics and exclaiming over the intricate dyes and weaves - riches first brought into the Empire over the Silk Road, from the far east through Syria, but now mastered and produced by their own craftsmen from Rheims to Venice to Genoa. The Norse women, who wore dyed wool and rough linen weaves and furs, were not those Gisla would have first thought to have any feminine appreciation for beautifully appointed things. But she had been surprised when the girls laughed and smiled in delight, even going as far as to - after seeking her approval - hold the gowns up to their own bodies and delight over the way they draped in beautiful and pleasing shapes. Though her Frankish maids had stood and looked from afar in distaste – staying away from the Norse girls as if they carried their heathen ways like a plague, easily caught by sharing the very air one breathed - Gisla had been strangely taken by the universalities that bound all women then. Ósk, in particular, had since turned into an unexpected companion, even though she could not quite bring herself to yet call the girl her friend for the disparities of rank and belief between them.  
  
It was hard to imagine these women with steel in hand as they held the line and bared their teeth with their shield brothers and sisters, Gisla thought. Far from wearing breeches and armor of boiled leather as a day to day dress, they were surprisingly . . . feminine whilst not partaking on raids with their male counterparts. Gisla looked, and saw that Ósk's kirtle was dyed a pleasing shade of teal blue over a simple, undyed linen underdress. The bronze clasps she wore securing the straps of her kirtle over her shoulders were ornate knots of bronze, and her belt was made of matching links of the circular knots; both beautiful in their own, primitive, way to look upon. Her long, fine blonde hair was more pale than any shade Gisla had yet to see in Frankia, and ornately braided back from her face to reveal fine cheek-bones and eyes the same blue as the sky on a summer day – a coloring her sister favored, even though quiet Ondótt did not say much with her slow progress with the Frankish tongue.  
  
The opposite of her sister, Ósk picked up Frankish even quicker than even Rollo did - she having a skill with languages, or so she was pleased to boast when Gisla asked. Along with her Northern dialects, she spoke two of the four Anglian dialects, and she even knew bits and pieces of the Arabic tongues, as well, for her home of Hedeby in the north was a trading port that had reached further into the wide world beyond the cold north than Gisla would have first thought. Ósk's most favored possession was a silver Arabic coin – missing a rough edge from the circle, for her people saw only the worth of the silver's weight, not in the coin's minted value – that she now wore about her throat on the moiré ribbon Gisla had given to her while they still dwelt in Paris. Ósk had been enthralled by the dancing, water-like pattern on the cobalt blue silk, and the smile she had earned from the girl when she gifted it had pleased Gisla; her maid wore her token daily, ever since.  
  
Perhaps more forward than she was used to from her own ladies in waiting – who were there to speak when spoken to, and aid her quickly and efficiently without lingering overlong in their tasks – Gisla had not been able to curb Ósk's perhaps too familiar demeanor, and found that she had little wish to do so as time went by. A better option, in her eyes, for translating than Sinric, and just as invested in her protection as her own two knights were – for she knew about the sharp knife Ósk ever kept hidden on her person – Ósk had so far helped her navigate more than one hurdle between their two cultures. To that end, Gisla had come to appreciate the girl's advice and keen eye for observing the subtleties of household politics and the general goings on in Rouen, day by day.  
  
Which was why Gisla bit her lip now, glancing from Ósk as she went about her task to Ondótt, who, rather than working at her sewing with the rest of her Frankish ladies, was instead making a wreath of some sort – weaving together sturdy ribbons with white petaled flowers, their smiling faces and bright gold centers proclaiming them to be mayweed, which was blooming as a wildflower in many of their unploughed fields since the arrival of the bright summer heat.  
  
Ósk caught her stare, and smiled to say, “We call this plant Baldr's brow, for its purity. We were quite pleased when we found that it grew here, as it does at home.”  
  
“Here it is called mayweed,” Gisla frowned to say, not at all caring for the Norse name. It was on the tip of her tongue to order Ondótt to stop, but she could not very well command her husband's northern subjects when her doing so would be against his exact wishes. “Yet,” this she said carefully, knowing that she needed to know more – in the way of adding arrows to her quiver in preparation for a hunt - but yet hesitant to open such a dialogue, “this Baldr you mention . . . who is he?”  
  
Ósk glanced at her, and tilted her head thoughtfully to answer, “Baldr was the son of Odin and Frigg; the brightest and fairest of the Aesir.” Her accent was warm and lilting over the words as she spoke, fondness and affection for the deity clear to hear in her voice. “He was beautiful in his ways, and respected in his judgment, so much so that he was never gain-sayed by his kin, and all went to him for his wisdom and fair council. So beloved was he that when Frigg his mother had a dream of his death to come, she made every living thing amongst creation swear an oath never to harm her son in an endeavor to spare him his fate. She drew this vow from the mightiest of the giants to the gentlest of the forest creatures . . . asking everything but for the mistletoe, which was then a very young plant, and thus beneath the All-mother's notice, much to her later grief.  
  
“Now Loki, the Sly One, was jealous of the love and affection the Aesir knew for Baldr, and when the gods were gathered at the Thing, throwing arrows at the Light-god and marveling over how they struck him not, Loki placed an arrow of mistletoe in the quiver of the blind god Hödr. Hödr, not knowing what had been done, threw the arrow, and thus, unwittingly slew Baldr his brother.  
  
“Great was Frigg's mourning, and the fire from Baldr's funeral ship was the greatest light ever produced on this earth - and it is that rite we seek to replicate now. For the light itself had died, but Frigg had hopes of her son's returning to her, and she entreated Hel, the guardian of the dead, to restore him to life. Such was the grief of the mother that Hel was touched, and felt pity in her heart. At last, Hel said that if every living creature would shed a tear for Baldr, then she would return his soul to life. Once more, Frigg entreated all of creation, and all in turn cried but for a single, evil giantess, who was said to be Loki in disguise. Thus, Hel could not release Baldr's soul, but she did foresee that Baldr would be one of the gods to return to life after Ragnarök, when the world was made new again.  
  
“We light our fires every year to remind the light to return to us; for the day is longest on Midsummer's, and when the cold comes the days shorten until we know more of night than day, we remember Baldr, and know that he will return.  
  
“Yet, what's more than that,” Ósk continued, “Frigg delights in our honoring her most favored son, and so she rewards us in return. As Matron of Wives, she sees to our own happiness in giving us signs for our matches to come, and as the Prophetess she may even grant you visions of your husband-to-be in dreams, or reflected in the blessed water we bathe from on the morning of Baldr's day. It is always a great day of celebration, even if we will be honoring it far from home this year.”  
  
Ósk glanced over at her sister, who was moving on to a second wreath now, Gisla saw. She leaned over, as if sharing a secret, and whispered on a lower voice, “If you are favored by Frigg, the boy who catches your wreath about the fire will be your sweetheart, and blessed will your union be. Do you . . . do you think that Ageric would catch my wreath tomorrow day?”  
  
Gisla blinked, taken from her thoughts by the unexpectedness of the question. A quiet unease had settled within her anew for hearing her story. To have such a barbaric tale honored as a fact, when they, at the same time, would be honoring a true martyr, a _true_ holy man of God . . .  
  
. . . but she grit her teeth, and thought then of Ageric, whom Ósk referred to. The Frankish man was a member of Rouen's previously existing city-guard, and as such, he had been one of the few that could stand up for any sort of time against Rollo in the practice yards. What was more than that, he continued to get up when beaten, determined as he was to learn more from those who knew the ways of war better than him. She knew that her husband respected the young man, and, apparently, he had earned himself more than one admirer.  
  
Ósk leaned over to take the finished wreath from her sister, turning the band over in her hands as the happy white blooms smiled up at her. Gisla had never answered her question, but then, Ósk did not look as if she much expected her to – trusting the will of the _All-mother_ she worshiped in this as she did in all things. This, Gisla felt her stomach turn to understand.  
  
“My family lived very far to the north, on the _Á_ _lt_ _á_ fjord, before moving south to Hedeby for the opportunities there available to my father,” Ósk then said in little more than a whisper. “There, night would last for days, _weeks_ , on end, but oh, how the light would _dance_ in the sky – shimmering in curtains of colour as you've never seen, not even in the face of a fire. You could see the boughs of Yggdrasil herself as Odin led his wylde hunt across her limbs, but on Baldr's day, at midsummer . . . the sun never sets. It lingers in the sky at midnight and stretches its beams upon your face, even as you sleep, reminding you that no matter how long the night is to come, the light will always return.”  
  
Ósk then frowned, and sighed as she turned the wreath over in her hands. “While we have dwelt here . . . sometimes I wonder if the gods know of this land, for day and night are simply day and night, and I cannot see the World Tree dance in the night sky. I feel their presence here,” Ósk placed a hand to her heart, pressing her fingertips into her chest, “But I cannot _see_ them; and I miss having proof of their eyes, assuring me of their notice.”  
  
But Ósk shook her head, and then glanced her way to ask, “And you? Who is the god you worship during the solstice? Who is your _John_?”  
  
“He is not a God,” Gisla answered, sighing as she recalled her trials trying to teach Rollo the difference between the Father, the Son, the Holy Spirit, the Virgin Mary, angels, and, lastly, the saints – without even beginning to explain God's ecclesiastical division of holy men upon the earth. “He is a Saint.” She hoped that Ósk would remember the term, and not ask her to explain them again. “He baptized our lord Jesus during his human life on Earth, and we honor him for his martyrdom at the hands of the wicked Herodias' daughter, Salome.”  
  
“With our people, when a father publicly names, and thus claims, his child at the _ausa vanti_ , the child is sprinkled with water,” Ósk pointed out thoughtfully. “It is not a _skirn_ , a religious purification, but the baptisms of babes we have seen bears very much in common. Was your Christ baptized as a babe?” she asked.  
  
Gisla frowned to answer, not wanting to think then about practices of the Church which were not in the Bible, knowing that infant baptism was a practice only more recently observed over the last few centuries. “No, our lord Jesus was baptized as a man grown and fully immersed in water – which is a practice we also observe for those newly converted into our faith. John submersed the Messiah in the river Jordan, and the Holy Spirit came as a white dove from Heaven to claim him as God's own son.”  
  
Ósk gave a little giggle at that. “God claimed Himself as His own Son?” she could not help but point out. “Your God is very confused, it seems.” But she shook her head, and asked, with respect in her voice and true curiosity to learn, “Did your John-saint die on Midsummer's eve?”  
  
“No, he was born six months before Christ, so we celebrate his day halfway in the year before Christmas,” Gisla answered, still half lost in her own thoughts as she gave her answers by rote.  
  
“Oh,” Ósk frowned, twisting the wreath thoughtfully in her hands. “Yet, I thought that you said that Saints were honored on the day of their deaths?”  
  
“John is special, as the forerunner of Jesus Christ,” was all she found that she could say in answer, having never put the simple question Ósk asked into words herself before. “Such an observation of his birth has been our tradition for some years now.”  
  
“Ah,” Ósk gave, accepting her answer, even as Gisla frowned, and wondered . . . “I think that I prefer the tale of my Baldr, but perhaps I shall say a prayer to this John also, hoping that Ageric will take notice of me. Would that please him, do you think?”  
  
She gave a smile at that, her expression then such a happy, simple thing. Gisla watched her, wondering at her peace as Ósk went to add her own embellishments to her wreath, again humming underneath her breath as she did so. The light was just past midday then, and it was bright as it streamed in through the windows and painted the room with its glow of gold. She stared without blinking, trying to imagine a world where the light did not shine for days on end, and then, at other times of the year, refused to set entirely. Was there truly such a place on God's earth? she wondered. Was it any surprise, then, that the people who lived in such a cold and harsh place came up with stories to explain that which their eyes could see and their hands could touch?  
  
Then, as a whisper, Gisla wondered if God could see the world that far to the north, or, like Ósk's gods, did he blink, and for that blinking forget his children, leaving them to their devils and their lies as the days darkened and ill things moved in time with the ever-black of the northern night?  
  
But, she warned herself, then sobering, such thoughts were to start down a path where blasphemy and heresy awaited, and she would not walk it. Instead, she merely picked up her own weaving for the day, and wove a few distracted stitches as her mind refused to completely calm.  
  
  
  
.  
  
.  
  
Gisla did not keep with her ladies for much longer. With her thoughts still burdened and her spirit restlessly thrashing about inside of her, she sought out the one place where she could think for her heart to temper itself with peace.  
  
Having her knights wait outside, she went into the cathedral and knelt before the altar to quietly cross herself and unburden her soul to God in prayer. She waited to feel that familiar peace come over her, but found her contentment to be illusive that day; as slippery and out of reach as the bottom of some great, rolling ocean. Her breath was tight in her lungs, as if those same waves were trying to draw her under.  
  
Gisla frowned, and stared up at the martyrs painted alongside the altar, and the ultimate martyr on the cross up above, wondering, then . . .  
  
“Ah, Princess Gisla, this is an odd time of day for you to come for your prayers. Is there a matter troubling your heart, child? Or, are you simply here to discuss our plans for Saint John's day tomorrow?”  
  
Still on her knees, with her hands clasped together in the remnants of prayer, Gisla turned to see Archbishop Franco coming down the aisle behind her, smiling genially as he blinked to adjust to the cool shadows of the church after knowing the bright summer sunlight beyond. She then felt her heart lighten, feeling as if God had answered her prayers. For, if she could not speak sense and reason into her husband's heart, then perhaps the Archbishop – whom Rollo respected and thoughtfully listened to – could succeed where she had fallen short.  
  
“It is the festivities for tomorrow that weight upon me, it is true,” Gisla admitted, finding her words pouring from her mouth all the more with each syllable spoken. “Rollo . . . _Count Robert_ , wishes for his people to observe their pagan rites to Baldr, even as we honor Saint John the Baptist at the same time. It is a profane, unholy thing that they shall do, and my arguments to see them made naught were met with obstinacy. My husband is fixed in his course, and I do not know how to go about altering his mind.”  
  
“Ah,” Franco said carefully, quietly in reply to her words. Slowly, he moved to sit down on one of the empty pews as if the weight of his body was then a great burden for his feet to bear. After a moment, Gisla rose and joined him.  
  
“You do not seemed as moved by this outrage as I,” she remarked after a long moment, wondering why she did not see a gleam of anger, of righteous indignation, glow from his eyes as it most certainly did from her own.  
  
“I believe, my dear, that when you have seen as many years as I, you merely know to ponder, and choose your battles carefully,” the archbishop's voice was a low sound from his chest, and Gisla stared at him, yet unable to understand his words.  
  
“My great-grandfather Charlemagne knew how to act in cases such as these, and I will be no different,” she proclaimed fiercely, tilting her head up proudly to say so.  
  
“Do you refer to the Emperor's slaughtering every Saxon who did not convert to the ways of Christ, after his invasion of their lands?” Franco raised a greying brow in order to wryly question. Gisla did not care for the tone of his voice in the slightest.  
  
“Charlemagne had the grace of God with him,” she stated firmly, staring at the archbishop as if he were simple-minded. “Such was his right as God's chosen one to inflict His justice on those who did not accept the gift of true faith offered to them.”  
  
“Yes, in that way you are correct,” Franco inclined his head, agreeing with her. She frowned, not caring for the tone of his voice, even so. “Yet the Emperor was also a very canny man, and wise to the ways of men – in particular, he understood the power that belief – _true_ belief – held over their hearts. It is to him you may credit our Saint John's day being celebrated on the day it is.”  
  
For a long moment, Gisla did not speak. She could only blink, and stammer out, “What?” The one word fell as a blow from between her teeth. It was very loud in the hushed silence of the church.  
  
“Why is the Baptist's death not celebrated after Christmas, along with Saint Stephan and the Holy Innocents, as it used to be?” Franco asked her. “Why do we celebrate his birth, rather than his death, as we do for most of our Holy Saints?”  
  
Gisla frowned to hear Ósk's question repeated then, hating that she could not think of an answer that would not sound as less the will of God and more the will of those who served him.  
  
“When converting the Saxon peoples, similarities between John and the Light-god whom the solstice honored were seen. Jesus himself called John a bright and shining light, and John baptized our lord Jesus in the river Jordan, much as these pagans cleanse in holy waters at the dawn of the solstice day.”  
  
Be that as it may, she could not, she _would not_ ever condone - “My great-grandfather would not twist Church doctrine to make a pagan populace feel _easier at heart_ for honoring the true God,” she protested even before she could fully process the thought, as instinctual and engrained as her awe and respect for her family's most revered hero was.  
  
“No,” Franco agreed with her, “Emperor Charlemagne did not care about their hearts; but he _did_ care about the taxes they could pay – taxes they could not pay if dead by the sword for their not converting, and he most certainly cared about the swords and shields these strong, warring men could pledge to his crown . . . or do you forget who marched by his side against the Slavs, ensuring that those tribes would pay tribute to his rule from that date forth?”  
  
Gisla opened and closed her mouth, feeling her blood run cold through her veins, no matter the warmth of the summer beyond them. The light fell through the few panels of stained glass she had so recently saw fit to commission, distorting the color of the sun's rays and throwing prisms of red and blue and green about the flagstone floor. She had to focus on that, rather than meeting the archbishop's eyes. “Those peoples were _honored_ to follow Charlemagne into battle; they _rejoiced_ in the new-found faith they were blessed to know,” yet her words sounded hollow to her own ears as she spoke them.  
  
She glanced, and saw that Franco merely looked at her, his kindly eyes piercing. Her gaze fell away again as she turned his words over in her mind, then imagining if the Northmen would have done as her great-grandfather had done . . . demanding that she worship where her heart did not lie, and then expecting her _gratitude_ in return. Yet, she swallowed, it was _different -_ for her god was the _true_ God, and blessed were those who followed Him with their whole heart, body, and mind. She had to continue to believe such to be true, for that single, undeniable truth was the foundation of her existence and the central core of her being, in more ways than one.  
  
“In many ways,” the archbishop continued, “the ways of the conqueror have never changed: leaders must pay their followers in gold and riches, and such wealth is much more easily won by marching into a neighboring land and taking it as booty and loot. Your great-grandfather knew this, and exercised this policy well; nearly as well as Julius Caesar and Alexander the Great before him. Yet . . . how will history remember the likes of Ragnar Lothbrok, as opposed to Charles the Great? Will one be nothing more than a greedy, bloodthirsty pirate, while the other, the genial grandfather of a great and mighty _Europa_?”  
  
“There can be no comparison,” Gisla all but bared her teeth to say. “Charlemagne fought with the grace of _God_ behind him, and for such he was dully blessed; that is an irrefutable fact.”  
  
“Truth aside, does Ragnar Lothbrok not believe the same: that his own gods are the true gods?” Franco tilted his head thoughtfully to say. “Did the Egyptians not have their gods, and the Assyrians there own? . . . Then the Medes, the Persians, the Greeks, the Romans – of these world powers, all believed that they had an accurate knowledge and true understanding. While we are blessed to know differently, to know _better_ , history sees without theological eyes – or, at least, it should – and in its eyes, little differences are seen between one conqueror and the next.”  
  
“Ragnar slaughtered _Christians_ ,” Gisla found her mouth tight over her words. Their speaking was as a blade through her mouth as she remembered the horrible intensity of the Siege . . . as she remembered walking the ways of the wounded after the fighting was done and seeing the butchering that had led to the deaths of so many faithful, good Christian men. She swallowed, and had to try twice to find her voice. “History shall remember him for his savagery, as well it should.”  
  
“How many fell in the Siege of Paris?” curiously, Franco asked of her. She blinked, not understanding why it should matter if one or a hundred fell at the hands of the Northmen.  
  
“One hundred and eleven fell by Ragnar's blade alone,” Gisla said with a soft fervor to her voice. She made her hands into fists, and had to keep from wrinkling the fabric of her dress as she worried it beforehand, having no outlet for her angry energy elsewise.  
  
“Four thousand and five hundred,” Franco stated, his voice as eerily calm as a grave-wind over the number.  
  
“No, the total casualties did not number that large,” Gisla shook her head, frowning to disagree with him.  
  
“It was,” Franco said gently, “when Emperor Charlemagne executed those Saxons he held captive in the Verdict of Verden.”  
  
“Where he put down an _uprising_ against his rightful rule,” Gisla protested, “It is not the same thing!”  
  
“An _uprising_ by a handful of desperate men, where only twenty-six Frankish casualties were taken?” Franco returned mildly, the soft, matter-of-fact way of his voice a marked counterpoint to her own growing fervor. “Charlemagne, once again, was trying to control a providence he conquered by force – a providence where those he now ruled could, perhaps, argue that he had no right to be. Much as Ragnar had no right to Paris, in your eyes.”  
  
Franco sighed, and looked at her levelly to say, "Yet you, my dear, do not have the force behind you to enact the legal code Charlemagne placed upon Saxony – especially as these Northmen are here for our protection, and we hold a tenuous control over them, at best. Yet, hope remains for the souls of these men in this one, simple fact: the ways of Odin are warring and bloody, and already eyes and ears are turned in curiosity for the ways of Christ. By meeting these pagans halfway, by respecting their version of faith and allowing them to come to honor the true God in their own time, is there not, perhaps, wisdom? It was a wisdom your great-grandfather shared, even when he had the might and the means to execute each and every soul who did not bend the knee before the cross and swear the fealty of his heart.”  
  
“There can be no wisdom in allowing paganism anywhere near our own holy days,” even so, Gisla did not – could not – agree. The whole conversation then felt surreal to her, little more than a dream, and she blinked as if wishing to awaken herself. For, arguing with Rollo was one thing, but for the usually devout and holy Franco to sit beside her and quietly, gently turn her long held beliefs and certainties aside . . .  
  
She exhaled, and could not quite find her breath again.  
  
“Our own holy days, you say?” Franco raised a brow to repeat, sounding suddenly tired as he did so. “Child . . . your faith is a beautiful thing, and yet, while our Lord is perfect in every way, His servants, unfortunately, can do things in His name that are less than worthy of the holy order they are to revere and hold sacred with their deeds.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Gisla asked, then unsure what he was referring to. Her voice came out as a lash from her mouth, quick and harsh to the hearing.  
  
“Take for example, Easter, the date of which we celebrate was decided by Constantine and his council now, was named after the Chaldean goddess _Astarte_ , also known as Ishtar, though the celebrations for the spring equinox were later included to honor the rites of the Saxon goddess called _Eostre_ ,” for that he looked at her, and his eyes were strangely pointed. “Ask your husband of her, and his answer may surprise you.”  
  
But she did not quite agree. “Yet, we were commanded to honor the resurrection of the Christ - ”  
  
“ - the scriptures say that we are to honor Jesus' death, and the ransom he paid for our sins; not his resurrection,” Franco pointed out mildly. “The rest? Pagan holidays, given a Christian name to make easier the way of conversion for a formerly pagan people. Yet, such a tradition does not end there. Consider, then, Christmas -”  
  
“ - the most holy of our celebrations,” Gisla hissed to say.  
  
“ - a celebration originally called _Saturnalia_ ,” Franco continued as if she did not speak, “honoring the Roman deity Sol and the Persian Mithra, and further combined with Germanic lore for the winter solstice. Both days were celebrated on December twenty-fifth, according to the Julian calendar, just as Christmas is now.”  
  
“Yet, that is the day of Christ's _birth,_ ” she could not let that one, simple truth go. “Such coincidences do not matter.”  
  
“ - is it a coincidence when the date of Christ's birth was decided by _Pope Julius_ in the year 350, and never declared outright in the Bible? Why would shepherds be out, sleeping with their flocks in Bethlehem during the cold winters in the highlands? Why would Jesus' disciples never observe his birth anywhere in the scriptures if not for the practices of men being observed in an attempt to convert pagan peoples to the side of Christianity? Once converted, those men, those _nations_ , would pay the tithe and honor the Church in all things. At one time, there were very holy men who protested the relics of heathenism breeding alongside our own rites, and some still do; yet the wish for worshipers and the coin available to take from baptized converts won out, and it is for _them_ the backs of our great order is built on.”  
  
Still, Gisla could not quite believe him. “All Saints day -”  
  
“ - _Samhain_ ,” Franco corrected her, “when the veils between worlds are thin by pagan belief, allowing the spirits through, and witches and practitioners of magic are said to meet with their masters and devils.”  
  
“Saint Valentine's Day -”  
  
“ - originally the Roman festival of Lupercalia, honoring Juno and Pan,” Franco sighed. “Yet, all of these celebrations are indoctrinated into canon law, and the Popes who set such canons are men appointed by the grace of God, and thus have His favor in all of their decisions – including their decisions on doctrine, deciding when and how we show such expressions of our faith.”  
  
But did a mere man, no matter how holy, have the right to make such a decision? this Gisla could not help but think. It did not seem right to her, it did not seem to be a good and reverent thing, and she closed her eyes, wondering how she could even begin to allow this travesty to happen – no matter that it had, apparently, happened many times before, and would continue to occur many times again.  
  
“You want us to celebrate this day, then? Is that truly what you are saying?” Gisla echoed hollowly, not believing that she quite understood the holy man, for no self-respecting man of the cloth would _ever_ -  
  
“ - no,” Franco said on a firm note, “Yet I do believe that there is wisdom in seeing these days observed side by side – for now. The Northmen see Baldr in the flames, but we will see our own Saint John, and spread word of his great works and holy deeds. Your women will leave to bathe in holy waters tomorrow; go with them, and help them remember how John baptized the Messiah in the river Jordan. Touch their hearts through that which is already a blessed day to them, and see how many you reach by offering them an olive branch, rather than a sword. Such tactics have been proven successful before,” then, and only then, did the archbishop’s voice take on an edge of steel, and his eyes lit with a reverent light from within. “For where is the name of Woden uttered in Saxony now? The true God walks the ways of that land, and He shares the hearts of His people with no one other.”  
  
Gisla frowned, thinking then of Ósk with her Frankish man she fancied. The Norse girl doubted her own gods in this land, and easily, all to easily could she see – but no, _no_. Gisla frowned, even so, not yet able to share the archbishop's easy certainty, his easy belief. It felt as a perversion of the way of God; a gross distortion of his word and his wishes, and yet . . .  
  
. . . for so long was this the way of the Church – the _successful_ way of the Church, at that. Thus, was it - this she wondered with a sick turning of her stomach - _she_ who was mistaken? Was it _she_ who was wrong, and needed to adjust her thinking?  
  
Gisla took in a last, shaky breath, and stood from the pew, then finding no peace then in the hushed holiness of the cathedral. She could not, until she calmed her own mind and found peace in her own heart, and to that end . . .  
  
“I thank-you for your enlightening me on this matter,” Gisla said, her words falling stiff and rigid from her mouth. “I will take your counsel into consideration.”  
  
She then turned, and left the cool shadows of the cathedral behind for the light of the day once more.  
  


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Saint John's Day** : Was originally celebrated on December 27th, but some time before the seventh century that date changed to fall on the summer solstice. At least by my research, we are not sure exactly how or why that change came about. Attributing the change of the date to Charlemagne's doing was my one artistic liberty with the origin of the holidays; the rest, however, is true as I wrote it. To this day, Saint John's Day is celebrated with bonfires, collecting 'holy herbs' that are now called Saint John's weeds, and bathing in 'holy' water. So, no matter Gisla's protesting now, the Church did have their way, and such was another masterstroke in converting the 'heathen' peoples their influence reached.
> 
>  **Arabic Traders and Hedeby** : This is a small note, but hordes of Arabic dirhams are common finds around the Baltic sea – on the island of Gotland alone, more than seven hundred such stashes of silver have been found, and there is, on average, one new site found a year. The Norse traded walrus ivory, furs, and slaves for exotic commodities such as textiles, jewelry, and foreign weapons. Hedeby was one of these great trading centers. I made this reference because the Arab trader Ahmad ibn Fadlan gave a eye-witness account of a Norse ship-cremation that was _word for word_ the scene they used for Earl Haraldson's funeral in the show – from the treatment of the slave girl, to the Angel of Death, to the ship-burning itself. If you're interested in reading that for yourself, I found that passage on page 96 of _Age of the Vikings_ , by Anders Winroth, where quite a bit of my research for this story came from. Out of all of my 'Vikings' non-fiction, this book is one of my favourites – so check it out, if you can!
> 
>  **Charlemagne and History vs. Ragnar and History** : is an argument I also took from Anders Winroth's book. Charlemagne's wars against Saxony were violent and bloody, and Ragnar's execution of 111 Frankish prisoners during the historical Siege of Paris in 845 pales against Charlemagne's execution of 4,500 Saxon prisoners in Verden during the year 782 (which is now remembered as a massacre by history). Charlemagne exacted tribute on conquered lands, looted the peoples he decimated, and had foreign powers simply pay him to go away – much as Ragnar waged his own wars. But, one is fondly remembered as the Grandfather of Europe, while the other is regarded as little more than a bloodthirsty pirate – simply because the Norse attacked those who had a monopoly on writing the history of Europe. It is something to think on when looking through the sometimes slanted eyes of history and national pride. (To be clear, I am not saying that Charlemagne did not do a lot of good for his own people and country – he did. Only, there are more similarities between he and Ragnar, than differences.)
> 
>  **Midnight Sun/Polar Night** : In the northern spheres of the world – where the Altafjord lies, for example – the summer months have long periods of sun, with the summer solstice seeing of sunlight all day long, while the winter is, at times, twilit and dark for days on end. You can see, as a result, where their beliefs and customs were influenced by the dying and return of the light, I can only imagine.


	3. Chapter 3

Gisla returned to the manor house in a distracted state. The archbishop's words had settled upon her mind as a yoke, unforgiving and heavy as they weighed down her previous perception of the world; and his gentle reasonings seemed to strike her once assumed place within that order with all the strength of a war-hammer, and now . . .  
  
She did not catch the eyes of those she walked on by; she only gave distracted nods to those who paused before her and bowed in respect, mumbling answers she did not even fully consider to questions that she could not recall if she tried. By the time she returned to her rooms, she was nearly surprised to find her ladies still there, waiting for her with baskets of bread and salted fish hanging heavy upon their arms.  
  
At first, Gisla blinked, before remembering the task that was to occupy the rest of her day. With a quick prayer, she gave her thanks to God for providing her just the thing to rally her thoughts and sooth her spirit once more. She forced a somewhat brittle smile to her face when she noticed the question in the eyes of her ladies - a question that was nearly spoken aloud from Ósk's mouth - but knew gratitude when she led the procession out from the manor in silence. They were then lost in the bustling expanse of the city in the afternoon, and any further questions were soon forgotten after that.  
  
Their task went more quickly than Gisla first would have thought: handing out the pre-prepared servings to the poorer families within the city, and then traveling with wagons and carts to visit the cottagers and the villein who lived outside of the city walls. Even the slaves working the fields received her charity, and she felt a familiar contentment fill her when she saw the hesitant smiles and curious glances that were given to her in return. Such tasks had always caused her soul fulfillment and delight in Paris; and she was as well known to those seeking alms as she was to those who ran the monastic hospital from the small order of Mont-aux-Malades to the ever growing Abbey of Saint Ouen. A country was only as strong as its weakest citizen, and it was to those who had a surplus to ease the way of those who had not; this she remembered her mother whispering the first time she accompanied the Empress on such a task. Those lowest in the eyes of men were not to be overlooked or mistreated, for their backs were the building blocks that formed the great tower of the Empire as a whole, and in God's eyes, no difference was there to be found in a slave or a king.  
  
As ever, Gisla felt her spirit twist with thoughts of her mother, wishing that she had Richgard's calm confidence and quiet wisdom by her side and guiding her path then more so than ever. Yet, such thoughts were as much a pain as they were a warmth, low in her heart, and she quickly cast them aside.  
  
Forcing her mind to turn from her mother, Gisla instead remembered the last time she had done this – though not in Saint John's memory - after the Siege, when she had spent her days passing out bread and provisions to the newly made widows and the fatherless boys, forcing herself to act as a balm to as many wounds as she could, all the while knowing that her people suffered and mourned because those leading them, those sworn to _protect_ them, had failed in every possible way. She had listened to every lament she could hear, and did what all she could in reparation for the ills of her people until the day she had been forced to leave Paris for Rouen.  
  
Gisla frowned, then reflecting that it had been some weeks then since she had last called to mind the cruelty her husband and his men were able – and quite willing – to inflict. The thought was as a splash of ice water over her shoulders, and she looked down at her basket of bread, suddenly ill at ease. It was disturbing, a voice inside of her whispered, just how easily she had forgotten, with only the passing of a few months. It was sobering, just how _comfortable_ she had become, just how _complacent_ , allowing herself to be lulled as a child before sleep . . .  
  
Fast on the wings of her thoughts, she looked up at the sound of a child's laughter to see that the cottager's toddling daughter had found delight in the rare, pale shade of Ósk's hair. Far from arrogantly holding herself above the hard packed dirt floor of the house, as her Frankish ladies so carefully did, the Norse girl had knelt without qualms and gladly let the child touch the elaborate plaits that decorated her hair. Her blue eyes twinkled as she spoke in quick, lilting sentences in her native tongue to amuse the child, and Gisla, far from finding the sight endearing, only frowned, knowing that Ósk too held an axe as she and her shield-sisters stole over the bridges of Paris in the dark of night, moving as the Devil's own in the shadows and taking on the edge of their steel -  
  
\- _f_ _our-thousand, five-hundred_ _souls_ _,_ Franco's soft, genial voice once again whispered in her thoughts, and she frowned, grinding her teeth together until her jaw ached from the motion. Man was ever dominating man to his injury; this even the scriptures said, and yet, in the days after . . . how were the conquerors and the conquered to live together as one? What verses were there to guide their steps then? What sage wisdom was there to be gleaned; what clear-cut advice was there to benefit from?  
  
To the surprise of her ladies, Gisla was the first one to turn from the cottage and start down the road to the next. She heard Ósk bid the family a good day behind her, and a part of her tensed as the Norse girl offered the blessings of Nanna to the young one; knowing them to worship Baldr's wife as a shield and a ready embrace for the little souls of children. She frowned as Ósk rejoined them, and clasped her basket tighter in her hands.  
  
The rest of their charity passed in a blur before her eyes, and her mood further soured when she realized that she found little joy in a task that normally gave her a true sense of peace and accomplishment. The sun was setting in a death of gold and scarlet light as she passed through the main square of Rouen with a quick pace, and her ladies had long given up trying to keep up with her and engage her in conversation – though she heard the tone of their murmuring turn wondering when they looked across the square to see Rollo speaking with a circle of his Northern men and their own Frankish nobility. She frowned to see Archbishop Franco speaking, the attention of all on him, and wondered what the clergyman was saying about the festivities that were no doubt being prepared for the morrow.  
  
Rollo caught her eye as she passed, clearly turning his attention away from the holy man and focusing on her alone. During the last few weeks, she had begun to know a stolen sort of pleasure for such gazes - as a secret and shameful thing - but now his stare itched against her skin. She frowned, remembering their earlier argument, and was further annoyed when she felt a moment's guilt and regret for her words. No, she told herself firmly, she had nothing to lament, nothing that needed to be forgiven. She had spoken righteously for her God and for the souls of her countrymen; she did not yet think herself wrong on that.  
  
Rollo was soon required to return his attention to what Archbishop Franco was saying, however, and with seeing the intrigued gazes of both the Norse and the Frankish men – a feat that was still proving to be a slippery accomplishment, even well into the summer – her wondering for the wisdom of the Church once again slipped through the ocean of her thoughts as a ripple, as a tide, pulling her where she first did not wish to go, no matter how she struggled against the current.  
  
Upon returning to the manor, she waved her ladies away, wishing to take her evening meal alone. Her ladies did not question her, and if any gaze glanced to her in question, Gisla did not look long enough to notice. She simply stood, deeply breathing in the cool shadows of her now empty rooms and waiting for the peace and quiet to clear her mind as the activities of the day had failed to do.  
  
Gisla did not stay still for long; managing only to wash her face and hands in the bowl of lavender scented water and change herself into a more comfortable dressing gown before a servant appeared with her supper. She took her meal alone, reading a book of Anglibert's Latin poems under the candlelight without truly noticing any of the verses; the descriptions of Charlemagne's glory and deeds of renown failing to move her as they so easily did before. She tapped a finger against the elegant lines detailing her great-grandfather's campaign against the Avars, reading the poet's awe for the stolen booty that Charlemagne distributed as freely as rain from the heavens to his allies and favored men. The riches were said to be so numerous, and his treasuries already so vastly overflowing, that Charlemagne even sent gifts of gold and exotic novelty as far as to King Offa of Mercia, in Anglia, as a symbol of his power and undisputed authority over the majority of Europa's mainland. She glanced away from the verse, turning down instead to where the Avars, at last, lost their will to continue fighting and surrendered outright. She paused her reading when their leader was baptized _Abraham,_ and returned to Avaria to demand his subjects' conversion and allegiance to their new Emperor the same as he bowed his knee. _King David_ , Anglibert praised her great-grandfather to be, and _Homer_ the poet was affectionately dubbed in return; the words leapt out at her from further down on the page.  
  
Gisla stared at the lines for a long, long moment, before pushing the book away, leaving it to sit next to her mostly untouched plate. A minute later, she rose and turned from the common-room to her inner-chamber. Without a lady there to attend to her, she sat on the velvet stool before her looking glass and began the laborious task of brushing the tangles from her long hair in preparation for the night. The process was a familiar one, and if she but closed her eyes she could still remember her mother doing so for her when she was many years younger. Thoughts of Richgard were ever close to her on days such as these, for both the good and the ill as they settled against her mind and pulsed against her heart. For a moment, she breathed in with the memory, embracing it, and when she breathed out she was alone in the shadows of the room again.  
  
She was nearly halfway through her task when she heard a whisper of movement from the entryway.  
  
She looked up; waiting and alert as she listened carefully. For being such a large man, Rollo was unusually light on his feet, and she usually did not hear him approach unless he wished himself to be heard. She instead saw the flickering of the shadows, and watched the way the candlelight stilled, as if he lingered by the doorway to the inner-room, and hesitated. She could hear as he shuffled his weight from one foot to the other, and, at length, he sighed.  
  
Gisla looked to her mirror without pausing in her task, watching as Rollo placed a hand on each side of the doorway, clearly lost in thought before he met her eyes in the glass. For a moment, she knew surprise that he would come to her that night – though she knew not else where he would go. Their words from earlier still resounded in her mind, and while she knew that he had little intention of yielding, she, meanwhile, had learned much that day, and now it was on her shoulders to consider . . .  
  
. . . she let loose an aggravated breath, and at last tore her eyes from him. Even so, she was acutely aware of his presence in the room. No matter what baffling sort of . . . _understanding_ had begun to grow between them, she did not think that she would ever be able to completely relax in his company. A strange sort of tightness clung to her bones, and her breath was quick in her lungs as she instinctively tensed. Her cheeks were warm, and her normally deft fingers were suddenly clumsy in her task – the same as a deer stumbling before a hunter's bow in the wood, or so she told herself.  
  
Yet, she contented herself with the knowledge that Rollo looked to be as unsure as she. The idea that she was something as uncertain and new to him as he was to her was a comfort, in its own way, no matter that the fine hairs at the back of her neck seemed to stand on end in awareness, refusing her a complete sense of peace, even so.  
  
Gisla did not hear him move; she only knew that one moment he was standing back, staring at her, and the next moment his hands were resting high on her back, as soft as a whisper. She started for a moment, before stilling, forcing herself not to tense. He had large hands, she thought, able to span from her neck to the curve of her shoulder with little effort. From her mirror, she watched the tendons there flex, as if fighting for stillness.  
  
“May I?” he finally asked. His voice was a low rumble in the quiet of the room.  
  
It took her a moment to understand what he asked for, and when comprehension dawned she slowly handed him her brush – he having noticing where her battle with the tangles had faltered in her distraction with his presence.  
  
“If you wish,” she ceded uncertainly, fighting the urge she had to bite her lip as she watched him through the mirror. Such was a task for mothers and daughters, or maids and their ladies, and she could not quite imagine . . .  
  
She tensed, expecting him to roughly paw at her hair with the brush, but she relaxed after several long moments, feeling the way he carefully worked the tangles away; neither tugging, nor being so gentle that his task took overly long. After a moment, she let the tension drain from her neck and her shoulders, instead telling herself to enjoy the attention. It was an endeavor he was certainly not foreign to - the thought formed in amusement without her permission - with the thick mane of curls that he himself had to daily tame.  
  
“My brother-daughter had a tender head,” Rollo said after some time had passed. “She only tolerated her mother brushing her hair . . . and me, oddly enough, for the few years the gods gave her. It was a small thing, but it gave me pride to know that was something I had that Ragnar did not.”  
  
She listened to him speak, her every sense carefully attuned to what he said – and even curious for more. Even so, she could not yet bring herself to ask outright what he would not freely give, and she swallowed away her impulse to ask further questions as he clearly moved on from his memories. She watched as an old sorrow touched his brow, and he frowned for its weight. Yet, when he caught her gaze in the mirror a moment later, his eyes were clear.  
  
“What were you doing today, with the fish and the bread?” he asked. “Was that one of your charities?”  
  
“In a way,” Gisla answered, distracted as the brush caught on a particularly stubborn snarl. Briefly, he soothed his fingertips over her scalp, and it took her a moment to concentrate against the unexpected warmth she felt for the gesture. But he then returned to his task, and she forced herself to relax again. “Such is my own way of honoring Saint John, though it is not a widespread practice.”  
  
“In what way did you honor your John-saint?” Rollo asked, sounding truly curious. When she looked in the mirror, his head was tilted to the side in the same way he did when confronted with a tricky portion of the Frankish language, or when he was resolved to conquer some riddle of the land and its governing. Without her notice – or approval - the look had endeared itself to her, she realized uncomfortably, for she found herself smiling softly, so much so that she did not think before answering:  
  
“It is something I used to do with my mother.” Yet, even the barest of mentions of Richgard to another were to cause a coldness to seemingly flush through her bones, and her heart constricted with a familiar blend of fondness and pain. She swallowed, but before Rollo could ask her more – for she clearly saw the beginnings of questions shine as the glint of sun on steel in his eyes – she moved on, and cleared her throat to further explain:  
  
“John the Baptist was more than just akin to the Messiah in faith. He was also family; born of Mary's kinswoman Elizabeth, who had a miraculous birth of her own in her old age. Jesus was fond of John; he loved him, and he grieved for his murder, even knowing that someday he would see him again in the Resurrection. On hearing of John's death, Jesus went to an isolated place to be alone and grieve his friend – but even though he had sailed to find his peace, a great crowd followed him on foot from the cities – some five-thousand men, not counting women and children. They were desperate for his wisdom, for his works of healing, and he . . . he did not turn them away, even though he had every right to ask for time alone in his grief. He looked at them, and saw them as sheep without a shepherd; and so he taught them, and healed them, and even went as far as to miraculously feed them – turning a few loaves of bread and small fishes into a feast great enough to feed everyone gathered to contentment and more.”  
  
Gisla smiled softly, fondly, at the tale. “That was ever a story that touched me, and one I think of often when mankind's own . . . agendas, and senseless greed and cruelties threaten my faith. In memory of that miracle, my mother would pass out bread and fish to the poor, and accompanying her on those days are some of my oldest and fondest memories.”  
  
She glanced, curious as to what Rollo's expression would be. Instead of a look of derision, or even disdain for the supposed weakness of the Christ as compared to his own warring gods, he instead looked thoughtful. He paused where he had begun to plait her hair, and she could feel the warmth from his body as moved closer to her, for a moment sharing her shadow. She inhaled, and smelled his now familiar scent of pine forest and storm.  
   
“It is a good leader who puts his followers before himself . . . who is ready to fight, and even die for his men,” Rollo finally said. She looked in her mirror, and saw that he moved to touch his token of Thor as he said so. The hammer then returned to its place around his neck, resting in the shadow of his half open tunic. “I can respect that,” Rollo cleared his throat to admit, before adding, “ . . . perhaps, my gods can respect your Christ-god for such, as well.”  
  
She watched as he shook his head, and the light glinted off of the hammer as he said, “The stories you tell me . . . they are good stories . . . stories worthy of a god. Most do not fit the weak, helpless man I more often see on your cross.”  
  
“There are different forms of strength,” she pointed out in reply. “Jesus did not have to die for ransom of our sins, but he did. His is the ultimate strength of sacrifice, of selfless love.” Her voice took on a zealous note, even as she unkindly wondered if Odin would sacrifice so, if _Thor_ would give up his life for his worshipers . . . but after a heartbeat she was still pondering, and she was not as sure in her answer as she would have been earlier in the spring.  
  
Rollo made a low noise of agreement in his chest. She watched the steady pattern of his hands as he continued to braid her hair. “I believe that I have come to understand such a concept only recently . . . the idea of being the type of leader your men would fight and die for . . . the type of leader men are proud to follow.”  
  
“Was your brother one such leader?” she asked, her curiosity forming her words before her mind could consciously create her thought.  
  
Rollo paused, and his face darkened for the barest of seconds before he answered, “My brother is charismatic, and easily does he inspire love in others.” His hands turned still, refusing to plait her hair until his own moment of unkind thought had passed. “Later it was easy for men to follow his deeds of valor, believing that through him they had found a path leading to glory and, later, Valhalla.  
   
“Even so,” Rollo continued thoughtfully, “our former Jarl – Haraldson, was much the same. He was strong and worthy of following for many years. I knew pride when I received my arm-band for swearing fealty to him, and when we marched against Jarl Sigdan's men in vengeance for his sons' murders my heart knew only fierce pride and belonging for being allowed to join him in righting that wrong. But . . . he grew older . . . he lost his edge, his _hunger_ , and many of his latter decisions were touched with corruption. He, perhaps, would have backed my brother's wishes to go west to Anglia had his doing so not seemed to be weakness on his part – in a way, showing deference to one who was _lesser_ than he. It was his time to join the gods when my brother took his life and his title; and such is a time that to every Chieftain must come.”  
  
Thoughtfully, she listened to his words, trying to imagine a world where sons succeeded fathers only if they had the strength and mettle enough to do so – which was so different from her own ancestors, who freely gave new kingdoms away to their sons as they were born. “We believe that God gives kings the right to rule,” she said on the wings of her thoughts. “He ordains them, and thus their offspring, to hold their thrones, and, as such, we must follow the laws of succession faithfully.”  
  
“You do so, even when the son is not as worthy as the father?” Rollo asked, sounding truly curious.  
  
“He is still God's chosen,” Gisla responded. “It is treasonous, against heaven and earth, to consider a ruler otherwise.” She tried to imagine the likes of Ragnar Lothbrok in Frankia; a farmer with a talent for death and intrigue, ruling as King above her. Comparably, she tried to imagine the farmers' sons who served in the city guard . . . picturing one of them winning renown and following enough to rule in her own father's place . . . it was a hazy picture her mind created, and she could not fully glimpse the vision, even in idea only.  
  
“Yet, is it right to follow such laws when your God's chosen is a man like your father?” Rollo tilted his head to say. She could feel where his hands moved to tie off her braid, and then rested on her shoulders with his words, softening their blow. Weeks ago, Gisla reflected, there would not have been comfort in such a touch, but rather, a feeling of suffocation. Now, she breathed in deeply, and let her breath out slow, finding the motion strangely easy in her chest.  
  
“Yes,” she answered, even so. “I still have to say yes . . . especially when it would be a man like Count Odo holding the sword and waiting to claim my father's crown in his place.”  
  
At that, Rollo made a face. She caught sight of his frown from the glass of her mirror. “I do not care for the Count; he wears the Sly One's gleam in his eye.”  
  
She was silent in reply to his words; having little to offer in kindness, and having no wish to speak ill of her father and his court any more than had already been spoken.  
  
“He was the one who negotiated my gaining your hand,” Rollo revealed then – carefully, hesitantly, as if he was uncertain of her prior knowing. “Yet, it was not a politician's pride he knew for his work. He . . . he took _pleasure_ in his doing so, as if . . .” he swallowed, unsure how to form his words.  
  
“I spurned him,” Gisla whispered, nonetheless understanding, and immediately wanting to dispel any wonderment to the otherwise. The hardness of her voice left no doubt about her opinion of Odo, while also answering just how far she had let the _wanting_ in his eyes touch her in return. “I refused his hand more than once, and his pride finally had enough. He . . .”  
  
_He gave me to you to hurt me,_ she nearly said aloud, and fast on the wings of those words she nearly added that there were worse marriages she could have made – to Odo himself included. Yet she swallowed such thoughts away, tucking them deep in her soul, along with the wave of surprise she knew for such a thought coming to her to begin with.  
  
Even so, the truth of it remained a tight thing in her lungs, denying her of her breath, and for a moment . . . her fingers laced together in her lap, and she dug her nails into her own skin so as to better focus her thoughts beyond the foolishness that had taken them.  
  
“Men like him . . . with their appetites . . . he would have tried to break you. He would have crushed your spirit,” Rollo said after a long moment. His words were a low, dangerous rumble in his chest, surprising her with their fervency. The flashing in his eyes was as storm-light upon upon a black river. “Or,” he amended his saying so, a dark levity turning his voice, “he would have pushed you to the point where you would have calmly put your dinner knife through his eye one evening.” The turn of his lips over his teeth did not leave any doubt over which course he believed she would have taken - causing an unexpected wave of pleasure to flush through her in reply.  
   
“And you?” she found her voice heavy to ask, knowing what she wanted to say, but yet unsure of how to say it. “Do not most men . . . do _you_ not prefer . . .” but she could not force the words from her tongue, no matter how she tried.  
  
“One does not want for a sheep when he has been gifted a _Valkyrie_ . . . no matter how maddening such a wife can be at times,” Rollo snorted, not even considering his answer before speaking. “And, as you have not yet put your dinner knife through my eye . . .”  
  
It was on the tip of her tongue to say that she had once considered doing so in the first few days of their marriage. She had even brought a knife to bed with her once before losing her nerve, and reconsidering her urge – strangely unable to move as she looked on his sleeping features in the darkness, taken by dreams she could not glimpse but for the faint expression of peace that softened the hard planes of his face. Instead, she was taken aback by how easily, how simply, he spoke of his path with her – for his belief in his gods and their will was still an unquestioned, absolute thing. For a moment she felt a brief flare of jealousy, wishing that she could so easily do the same, especially now . . .  
  
Gisla frowned, and looked down, only then aware that he had never quite stopped touching her. His hands had moved from her shoulders to run thoughtless patterns up and down the sides of her arms, slowly and absently, trailing faint tendrils of pleasure in their wake. Though the touch was gentle, and nearly painfully chaste, she seemed to feel it in the very core of her being, awakening something oddly unfamiliar and foreign deep within her. His hands were warm, she thought then, which was clearly why she felt oddly stifled in her skin. She swallowed, and found her throat to be dry as she leaned back to feel the solid heat of his body standing so close to her. When she breathed in, she could better smell the familiar scent of pine and rain, along with that odd earthiness that was simply _him,_ and it stirred something in her. 

Looking at him through the glass, she was suddenly aware of the faint desire she had to touch him – to trace the hollows of muscle and the hard definition of his flesh that she could see peek from his collar and strain against the confines of his clothing. For a moment the urge was so strong that her fingers fairly trembled with her wish, and a wave of mortification instantly came over her for the thought. Even more so troubling was the hazy knowledge that she wanted him to continue in touching _her_. Rather than the revulsion and panic she had first known in the beginning of their marriage, and, as of lately, the nearly tepid platonicness of their relationship, she instead felt a hot and rolling thing underneath her skin, putting her strangely on edge. She flushed, fighting the foreign urge she had to shift in her place - anything to sooth the wanting that had suddenly taken hold of her.  
  
She tightened her suddenly traitorous fingers into fists, feeling a wave of shame pierce through her, guilt making a leaden weight in the pit of her stomach to know that such a strong, physical response had been drawn from her body by a man who was not a Christian . . . a man who did not believe in her God . . . and worse, a man who had held a sword to her people and drew her away from Paris as easily as Charlemagne had taken tribute from the Avars. For a moment, she felt no better than the Israelites who had been seduced by the Canaanite women, for so fervently, in that moment, had she _wanted_ . . .  
  
She swallowed, both dismayed and disgusted by her own weakness. For it was one thing to allow her pagan husband his rights – should he ever take them, that was – but it was quite another thing for her to enjoy, and even _yearn_ . . .  
  
At the frank admission of her thoughts, Gisla stiffened and sat upright in her seat, and that was all Rollo felt. She watched, and felt where his hands stilled upon her shoulders, his thumbs resting from where they had begun to lightly massage the tightly coiled muscles there. He had leaned close to her, she realized, and his mouth was but a whisper away from her neck. She could feel the warmth of his breath, and another wave of mingled wanting and guilt pierced through her. She bit her lip, and swallowed at the sensation.  
  
And, slowly, Rollo stepped away from her. She felt a wave of coldness fill the spaces between their bodies, even as a new sort of heat filled her when she saw the dark look that had filled his own eyes – touching the earthen shade there with something molten, something seemingly deeper than the fields and the black soil, drawn from the very belly of the earth. She felt scalded in its wake, and wondered, for a moment, if such was one of his pagan magicks, the witchcrafts of his people for her to feel . . .  
  
“Goodnight, princess,” Rollo's voice was a deep rumble of sound, and even more so than the naked sort of wanting he was not ashamed to hide, she was more disturbed to see the resigned sort of hurt that had rested in the resigned planes of his face. He had felt her stiffen, and thought . . .  
  
It was on the tip of her tongue to call him back, to explain . . . but to explain what? To say what? Gisla was unsure, and this new, piercing sort of guilt she felt was then sharper and more intense than the disquiet she had known only moments ago. She did not know what to say, only knowing that she wanted to say something – _anything_ – and yet . . .  
  
In the end, she let him leave in silence. She merely watched him go, and stared into the shadows as the night moved on around her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Richgard** : Also known as Saint Richardis. As Emperor Charles on the show is a congelation of three different Charles from history, I had my pick of Empresses to go with him for Gisla's mother. For that I chose the wife of Charles the Fat, who has quite an interesting tale to go with her - and a holy connection with a bear, at that. ;) But I will be getting into that more in the story to come.


End file.
